


Trouble Breathing

by biketest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Murder, Depression, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biketest/pseuds/biketest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You die before me, and I'll kill you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/523649.html?thread=7006593#t7006593) on the hoodie-time [holiday meme](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/523649.html). Title from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-RCMCe7w7o) by Alkaline Trio.

They burn Bobby. Making deals, bringing back the dead isn't an option anymore. This is one lesson they've finally learned. As much as it makes guilt inflame in his gut, Dean knows he can't make that sacrifice again. He can't subject himself to a lifetime of hell, and he can't do that to Sam again. The next time the Winchesters die, it will be together, and it will be final. Dean's decided that much.

So here, in a New Jersey field, Sam and Dean watch their second father turn to ashes. Sam cries, soft gulps of air, tears streaming down his face. Dean stands there gazing into the fire with folded arms, feeling the black hole inside of him suck even more matter into itself. All he can think about is his last exchange alone with Bobby, how he has now lost one more thing tethering him to this life. What is it with Dean's father figures and haunting him with final conversations?

It's almost déjà vu, until—"fuck off," Sam yells at an apparently hallucination-infested section of air. He almost advances violently towards it, then forces himself back and presses his thumb into his palm instead. Dean wants to say something to help his brother, to anchor him, but right now he doesn't have the energy or the words.

Dean wipes his arm across his forehead and it comes away with a smear of ashes. Their last friend's ashes, swimming through the air, landing on his skin and hair, imbedding themselves in his flannel. The thought fills him with so much despair he has to sit down.

He watches the fire cross-legged on the ground and takes out his flask. He almost pours some whiskey into the dirt to salute Bobby but decides against it, drinks it himself instead.

* * *

Dean didn't manage to get drunk at the fire pit, and he's still having a hard time of it back at the house they're squatting in. Two thirds of his way through this bottle of Jack and okay, the room is spinning quite a bit, but he's not numb like he should be by now. The fucked-up thoughts he wants to drown, Bobby's voice rotating in his head, they aren't going away. He's just dizzy and sad.

Panic and hopelessness bubble up inside him simultaneously; what if he runs out of alcohol before it has any effect? Why isn't anything working anymore?

Lying on the couch, Dean just wants to get drunk enough to pass out. If numb isn't an option tonight, he'll settle for unconscious. Puke keeps trying to force its way out of him, but he fights the reflex and keeps drinking. It takes a while, but eventually Dean's vision blackens, he passes out.

When his eyes open again, Dean's still pretty drunk. But it's better than hung over, he supposes. He doesn't know how long he was out, but by his current levels of exhaustion and intoxication he wouldn't bet on it being more than two hours. It's fine, though, Sam's up by now as well. It's time to hit the road.

First thing, they need to ditch this car for something a little more nondescript. They pull into a motel parking lot and pick out a gray sedan no one will look twice at. It isn't until Sam has successfully unlocked and hot-wired the car and Dean is shoving the previous owner's junk into the back seat, that Dean realizes they're in a current model Chevy Impala. He wishes more than anything he hadn't locked the last of his whiskey in the trunk.

* * *

The roads here are icy, and Dean has to drive extra slowly to keep from skidding. Their plan is to get as far from Dick Roman and his cronies as possible. Once they're back off the leviathan radar, they can come up with a plan to gank the leader—currently, this involves driving across miles of winding mountain road in the snow and dark. Dean doesn't know how high up they are, exactly, but the headlights illuminate far enough that he guesses its close to a mile high.

Dean glances at his brother, conked out in the passenger seat. Sam's face is splotchy and red from his last crying fit. He fell asleep with his thumb jammed into his scar, that stupid scar on his left hand he won't let heal.  _No_ , he murmurs in his sleep, and _stop_. Dean reaches over, touches his brother's shoulder in an attempt to calm him down, but all it does is make Sam flinch violently and grunt. A wave of helplessness crashes through Dean's body, and he retracts his hand and grips the wheel tightly, instead.

He grits his teeth and focuses on trying to breathe. God, he hates being sober. It's as if he's trying to soldier through pain of getting a wound stitched up or a shoulder popped into place. There's no injury but Dean's pretty sure that if he lets go he'll start screaming or just start falling apart, all the emotions he doesn't know how to name finally eating through his stomach and consuming him. He feels stupidly panicked.  _Breathe._

There's no air in this car, though, this pathetic, tiny, stolen car, and Dean feels like he's trapped, like he'll never be able to find a way out of this. He'll be in this impostor-Impala driving around this winding mountain road forever and ever. And he'll always be this cold, and his little brother will always be asleep next to him grasping his palm, will always have just finished crying. He won't be able to breathe ever again.

Everything he's suffered through, all the deaths he couldn't prevent, the souls he tortured, the people he's lost, the shit he's seen. It'll always be swimming around in his head, suffocating him from inside. Dean knows he can't do this anymore, any of it.

He finds his attention drawn back to the cliff edge, the hundreds of feet of darkness. The jagged rocks are almost calling to him.

The tires could slip. They  _would_  slip if it was anyone else in this car. There are so many ways it could go down, so many accidents waiting to happen. It would be so easy, all he has to do is accidently turn the wheel too far, look over at his brother a second too long. Opportunities like this don't come knocking every day. Plus, Sam's asleep, he won't know what happened. He won't even know  _anything_ happened. He'll go out peacefully in his sleep. Maybe he doesn't realize it now, maybe it's not what he would choose, but he'll be so much better off. Dean knows it. He'd be doing them both a favor, really.

Bobby isn't alive to kick his ass for it anymore either. That's when Dean decides,  _this is it_. He'll just—help fate a bit.

It goes like this:

Dean doesn't think he's ever felt so relieved, so full of joy in his life. Making this decision, this choice to die lifts hundreds of weights off him he didn't even know he was carrying. It's like floating, like he had been living in darkness for years and was just allowed to see light again. Without meaning to, he lets out a sudden, heartfelt laugh. The noise awakens his brother in the passenger seat, who sees his genuine smile, the jerk of the steering wheel towards the railing, hears the engine accelerating. Comprehends. Screams, "DEAN!"

The Impala collides with the guardrail, the brothers are jerked backwards into their seats. Before Dean realizes  _we're not falling, I'm not dying_ , he's hit in the face by his brothers fist. Before he can think to stomp on the gas, accelerate through the rail, and finish the job, his door's open and he's being dragged out of the car and thrown into the snow.

Panic rises in Dean's gut again. It takes over. He was so close, he was almost free, and now there's a possibility that will be taken from him. Sam is on top of him, his hands on Dean's shoulders, pressing him into the ground. He's yelling something, but Dean's not listening.

Dean flips his brother expertly, extracts himself from Sam's grip and starts sprinting toward the cliff edge. A hand shoots out and grabs his ankle, though, before he can get very far at all, and he pitches face first into the snow. He's dragged backwards, and once again Sam has him pinned. It's almost unfair, this matchup—Sam, a giant, has eaten and slept; while Dean has been awake for 46 of the past 48 hours and has been drinking more than he's been eating (levia-sandwiches notwithstanding) for months. This time, he's kept down.

They stay like that for a while, panting, Sam pressing Dean into the ground. Snow falls lazily around them as Dean struggles to escape his brothers grip. After a few minutes, Dean goes limp. The fight has left him; he's not going to die tonight. Sam eventually lets him go and collapses beside him.

Dean winds up sitting in the snow, flakes drifting down onto him, melting on his face and landing in his hair and lashes. Sam is still vibrating with anger and adrenaline. Words rip out of Dean, ragged and painful.

"Before he died, before he went into that warehouse. Bobby was telling me—he said if I died before he did, he'd kill me." Dean wipes under his eyes, expects to be crying, but there's nothing there but wetness from the snow. He can't remember the last time he cried. "—but he's gone now, Sammy. Bobby's dead. And I'm so,  _so_  tired, man. I can't even—I don't think I can do this any longer. I know I can't." He swallows and falls silent.

Sam just sits there, nodding. He nods for a long time, like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

After a while Sam pulls his brother out of the snow and shoves him into the passenger seat. Dean doesn't fight him this time, just rests his head against the window as Sam gets in the drivers side. The car rumbles to life and Sam backs slowly out of the mangled guardrail. There's minimal damage, really. The bumper's dented but the car starts fine. It drives fine. The fucking airbags didn't even activate. Dean feels like an idiot.

The cold, wet from the snow sinks out of his clothes, deep into his bones, and his teeth start chattering. Maybe he should wrap his arms around himself, try to create some heat, but he only watches his fingers twitch where they rest on his legs before they lose the will to get warmer. Drops of freezing water run off his fingertips and onto the car floor. Sam flicks his eyes over his brother and pumps the heat.

After a couple minutes of silence, Sam starts crying, gross, powerful, convulsing sobs. Each breath wracks his whole body; the noise makes Dean want to disappear into his seat. He tries his hardest to fade into the gray cloth, but he doesn't, of course he doesn't. All he can do is cover his eyes and listen, try to breathe.

Dean shivers, and his brother sobs, and they drive a stranger's dented caralong a snowy mountain road in the dead of night.


End file.
